


leave all your longing

by aheshke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Accidents, M/M, Oneshot, Songfic, Swearing, all mistakes re: UK accuracy are my own, happy birthday galeneiis, i have never been licensed to drive in the UK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25967887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aheshke/pseuds/aheshke
Summary: It should be embarrassing for a grown man in his thirties to be singing along to a pop hit from 2008, but he has had A Day and couldn't care less. Florence Welch is a goddess and her music deserves to be appreciated as such.
Relationships: OhBaelish, Petyr Baelish/Oberyn Martell
Kudos: 8
Collections: OhBaelish Cinematic Universe





	leave all your longing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galeneiis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galeneiis/gifts).



The evening commute from Highgarden to Kings Landing has slowed to a meandering crawl on the K4 under a sudden downpour. Petyr’s stomach growls. He stares mournfully at the brake lights of the sedan in front of him and regrets not taking the opportunity to order a sandwich from the café he and Willas Tyrell took tea at for their business meeting.

Petyr wishes he liked Willas better, as he seems pliable enough in terms of eagerness to invest in Lancaster Corp., but alas, he is tied to his family’s apron strings. Unfortunately, he is not the only seated member on the board of Tyrell Ventures. His grandmother Olenna, a shrewd harpy of a woman, called him mid-sentence at the tea shop and demanded his immediate return to the firm’s HQ before going any further. The still-blank contract forms in Petyr’s briefcase had felt annoyingly heavier for the rest of the day, and he can only imagine what sharp words Cersei and Tywin will have for him tomorrow. Lancaster Corp., profitable enough as it is, still lacks the funds to initiate their hostile takeover of Stark Inc. via the stock exchange.

His heart twists a little, thinking of how Catelyn would have felt knowing that her family’s business has been brought so low after its decades of exporting power, but then again, she refused his help when it was offered. Robb Stark had taken the reins two years prior, after the passing of his father from a fatal heart attack. Cat and Robb had died in a boating accident a year ago, and since then, Stark Inc. had begun a steady yet inevitable collapse. And there was no way Petyr would ever let such a prized and formerly reputable jewel fall into the hands of Bolton Industries, _those vultures._ No, he was the one to suggest the merger to Tywin, complete with a presentation on the projected profits and (relatively) minimal costs involved to bring Stark Inc. into their lion’s pride. While not quite the _magnum opus_ he envisioned (that one had involved taking over as CEO of Stark Inc. and asking for Catelyn’s hand in one glorious, golden year before her death), it will secure his position with Tywin and prove his worth. If only he can get Tyrell Ventures to invest their money.

He hand-cranks the driver’s side window down for some fresh air, huffing with frustration over how slow the efforts have been with the Tyrells over the past several months.

The refurbished radio of his prized-yet-ancient Buick Skylark crackles to life as the final notes of a rock band he doesn’t recognize fade out and a familiar voice reaches his ears.

“You are listening to 98.3 _The Rose_ , and I am your host, Loras Tyrell, bringing you all the best indie and alternative hits on this rainy autumn evening. Up next: an old favorite of ours, by the legendary muse, _Florence Welch_.”

The familiar harp strumming of the Florence and the Machine song tugs at him, like an old friend on his shirt-sleeve.

“Oh, _fuck yes_ ,” he mutters under his breath, rolling down his window further, not caring about the droplets of rain hitting the right side of his face.

_"Happiness, hit her like a train on a track… Coming towards her, stuck still no turning back..."_

Petyr can't resist joining in on the next lyric, "She hid around corners and she hid under beds, she killed it with kisses and from it she fled," his voice rising from a murmur to the tenor he usually only displays in the privacy of his shower. With the rain outside, he can almost imagine he’s back in one. "With every bubble she sank with a drink, and washed it away down the kitchen sink."

It should be embarrassing for a grown man in his thirties to be singing along to a pop hit from 2008, but he has had A Day and couldn't care less. Florence Welch is a goddess and her music deserves to be appreciated as such.

"The dog days are over, the dog days are done," he sings even louder, reaching over to boost the volume on his radio even louder.

“The horses are coming so you better _ru-un!_ ” A smooth baritone voice chimes in from his right.

Startled and flushing at being caught, Petyr turns his head and sees a ridiculously _fit_ man in a red Dodge Viper in the right-hand lane, the left-side window rolled down. He has an intense, warm stare beneath a head full of artfully tousled curls that makes Petyr momentarily forget what words are, and he wears a well-fitted charcoal suit over a black turtleneck that plainly displays the man’s proclivity for weight-lifting.

He waves a brown hand cheekily at Petyr, full lips turned upwards as he sings on, “Run fast for your mother run fast for your father, run for your children for your sisters and brothers—" The handsome man who mysteriously knows all the lyrics to his favorite song quirks one thick eyebrow at him, as if in challenge.

Well, Petyr’s never been one to back down from what he likes. “Leave all your love and your longing behind you, can't carry it with you if you want to survive!”

Absurdly, the man adds cheerful hand-clapping to the beat as they harmonize together on, “The dog days are over, the dog days are done! Can you hear the horses? 'Cause here they come!”

Two men, joyfully singing baroque pop in their muscle cars in the rain. It’s oddly charming to Petyr.

The slower, mournful part of the song has always been his favorite, the part that stole his heart from the first time he heard the song, and he meets the man’s stare as he croons, “And I never wanted anything from you, except everything you had. And what was left after that too, _oh._ ”

He allows his voice to trail off and gamely taps the beat against his steering wheel as the man segues into the faster tempo, the rumble in his voice more attractive than Petyr wants to admit to himself. “Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back, struck from a great height— _oh bloody fuck!_ ”

 _Skriii-CRUNCH_.

Petyr hears it before he feels it, his head slamming against his steering wheel. Dazed, with stars dancing in his vision, he hears the rest of the song happily playing on the radio, a strange contrast to his sudden and sharp pain. He has the presence of mind, at least, to lift his head and slap his hazard lights, only now noticing the green lights ahead of him and the loud honking behind him.

“Shit, are you alright?” The man in the Viper is outside his window, grabbing his pocket square and dabbing at Petyr’s face through the window. He must be bleeding but is still too in shock to feel it.

“I’ve been better,” Petyr murmurs, trying to focus. He notices the Viper pulled over to the shoulder, its own hazards flashing even though it doesn’t seem to be damaged. “I’d better move over there. Did you get pranged, too?”

The man shakes his head and looks around, as if noticing the stopped traffic behind them and the incessant car horns for the first time, and darts back over to the shoulder, gesturing for Petyr to drive his poor, battered Buick out of traffic. He leans back into Petyr’s window once they’re both safely parked, his hair dripping from the rain and his suit looking rather bedraggled, and says, “That’s a nasty-looking gash on your head. You stay there and I’ll call 999.”

“Thanks,” says Petyr, wondering where his cell phone might have been flung to when he was hit. He watches a black Skoda SUV with a hood that looks rather worse-for-wear screech away down the K4. _How splendid_.

“Fucking cowardly _bastard_ ,” the man swears, already dialing emergency services. His voice has something of a melodious accent to it, Petyr notes, but his head is spinning too much to place it. “Only utter _arseholes_ hit and run a beautiful classic car just because it looks expensive to fix.” He speaks rapidly to the operator, rattling off the details of the accident and the runaway Skoda.

When he pauses to remain on the line until the police and EMS arrive, Petyr asks, “I’m terribly sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

The man grins toothily. “Oberyn. Oberyn Martell.”

“Petyr Baelish,” he replies. His head is beginning to hurt terribly and he presses the pocket square more firmly on his forehead. Perhaps a car accident might get him out of a dreaded ear-reaming from Cersei tomorrow morning after all. A blessing in disguise, though he mourns the thought of leaving his poor Skylark in a car mechanic’s shop for repairs. He saved her from a junkyard fate in his twenties and is loathe to let her out of his sight. He pats the leather seat next to his and adds, “Surely you don’t want to wait in the rain until the ambulance arrives, Oberyn.”

Oberyn steps inside the Skylark and growls. “Look, if they don’t catch that arse who hit you, I’ll pay for the repairs myself.”

“No need,” Petyr says, shaking his head. “You weren’t even a part of the accident and I’m sure you have other places to get to.”

“Yes, but I _distracted_ you by singing along,” Oberyn points out. “So I’m at least a little responsible. You’re hurt and I’m not leaving you in this state.” Up close, he’s even more ridiculously fit. Those long eyelashes and the way his thighs fill out his trousers ought to be illegal.

“It wasn’t _only_ the singing,” Petyr mutters, looking away and flushing again.

A strong, warm hand takes his and brushes a thumb over his knuckles. Petyr blinks rapidly and stares at Oberyn in disbelief. Maybe he hit his head against the steering wheel harder than he thought because this can’t be happening, right?

“I mean it,” murmurs Oberyn, voice barely audible over the sound of the rain on the car and the distantly approaching ambulance sirens. “I’m not leaving you.”

Petyr wills Oberyn to keep holding his hand, to actually mean his words, to mean the things that are making his heart pound so loudly in his ears, and rasps, “ _Okay._ ” He clears his throat and tries again, haltingly. “You know. After this is all over. I owe you a pint. Or several.”

Another slow drag of the thumb across his knuckles and Oberyn smiles like rays of sun peeking through the rain clouds. “I’ll hold you to that.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- Based on [this writing prompt](https://promptsfortheotp.tumblr.com/post/161942270063/were-stuck-in-traffic-next-to-each-other-and-you).  
> \- It's a little thing, but K4 stands for "Kingsroad 4" in this hypothetical Modern AU.


End file.
